Open Borders
by Taxie
Summary: February 28th, 1815. The Treaty of Ghent has been signed; the militia have gone home, the war of 1812 is over. America invades Canada a second time, but with different intent.   Uh, I just reloaded the second chapter.  Hopefully it appears this time!
1. Chapter 1

It was cold.

Matthew blinks once, noticing that the fire in his grate had burned down to soft embers; he'd been watching it for so long that it had nearly ceased to exist. The cold in the room wasn't unbearable nor unexpected, being that it was the end of February. Matthew's bones knew winter like a consistently abusive partner: the overall experience wasn't pleasant, but at least it was predictable.

Matthew also knew that there were another two months left yet until the air sweetened and the ground loosened from rock and frost into yielding fields and fertile growth. Normally, he didn't mind winter, being that it was an unstoppable force and hating the unstoppable just seemed utterly fruitless to him, but this time around, something in his chest yearned for spring so hard he ached.

_Tired_, he thinks, pushing himself up from the bearskin rug with a sigh – his breath was becoming visible, and while he wasn't as suspect to cold as most seemed to be, it didn't mean he reveled in it.

When he regained his center of gravity something within him shuddered, like agitation along his border. The sudden jolt of unease told him he knew what was coming, and since that was the case there was only one –

The knock at his heavy door told him that he was right, and the only thing left was confusion. _Please no_, Matthew thinks, eyes closing. He was strong, all right, he was still confident… but some part of his inhale still tasted like burned, wet wood and cooked meat and it made him ill.

Another knock. Matthew debates ignoring it totally, but _he_ would know that Matthew was at home due to the dying fire in the grate and the subzero temperatures outside. Not to mention, Matthew was more or less a homebody when he wasn't out driving stupid marauding idiots out of his country.

Deep breath. Deep breath.

Matthew turns toward the fire for a moment, takes his time in selecting a log next to the pile, and tosses it on the coals. The dry wood doesn't catch immediately, but Matthew spends a few moments watching the undulating glow of the coals tease at the loose fibers of wood dotting the log like fur: they curl and smoke.

Finally, gathering his courage in his fists – in case he has to use them, he doesn't like to fight but he _will_ – he walks to the door, pulls in the latch, and yanks the heavy oak slab back.

The pile of furs and wool that greets him is nearly unrecognizable in its bulk, save for the two glaring eyes peering out from under the black bear fur of his headwrap.

Matthew glares in return at his brother for a few swift moments, before the numbing cold starts to banish away any hint of warmth his fire is creating.

"We can have this conversation inside or out," America says, and Matthew knows that his brother's teeth are clenched against chattering, "and I don't suppose you have a preference?"

America's banality makes the slowly rising urge to throttle the other flare for a moment, before fading. _No more fighting_, the tired part of him whispers, and instead of punching his southern neighbor between his eyes – the only part of America made visible – he steps aside and lets him in.

America seems to accept Matthew's silence willingly as he walks across the unfinished wooden floors – such a small luxury, really, but Matthew's glad it's not a dirt floor when America drags a small snowstorm into the house after him. Matthew shuts the door behind him and doesn't say a word as America's furs, wraps, wools, and felts drop to the floor like onion layers peeled from the root.

Matthew's lip quirks. He knows America doesn't like the cold. He also knows that America is far too proud to remain bundled up when Matthew merely wears a homespun shirt laced closed at the neck. America will be cold, and Matthew takes a small amount of pleasure in knowing his brother's discomfort.

When America steps out of the last layer, Matthew lets his eyes move over his brother's form slowly; this is the first time he's seen America since the other declared independence from England when he hasn't been in military uniform. Dressed at his ease, his brother looks remarkably similar to himself in a cream shirt and undyed breeches that give way to soft leather boots.

Matthew raises an eyebrow at the stoneware jug that America carries in his left hand, two long fingers looped inside the handle at the top, the stopper sealed with wax.

"I brought cider," America says, raising the jug up slightly, as if in a peace offering.

_Peace_. The treaty had been signed a mere two weeks earlier, setting off a week's worth of rampant elation in Matthew, the inhabitants having beaten off the invading Americans, the British having gone home, life having a chance at not being so bloody for a breath of time.

If Matthew had any say about it, it would never be that bloody again. And even though this brother was the one who came screaming into York with torches and bayonets and so much anger, Matthew takes the jug from him.

"Thank you," he says, voice calm with politeness. He crosses the room to the fire – having stoked itself from the dry wood and the draft that had been pulled through the room, and settles the cider down in the cooling embers at the edge of the fire to heat it.

There is more silence, and Matthew hears the whisper of America's boots against his floor yet does not move. It might have been entirely possible for this brother-turned-revolutionary-turned-marauder to murder him, here – he knows his brother's strength, he knows what can happen when America gets that spark of insanity in his eyes – but there is something in Matthew's being that knows, just like he knows the winter, that it won't happen.

Not today. It might have happened two months prior, it might happen two months from now, but it won't happen today.

Instead, two cold fingers brush gently against Matthew's shoulder, as if warning him about the touch, before they slide up the side of Matthew's neck, push firmly against the underside of his jaw, and tilt's Matthew's jaw slightly back.

Matthew allows the touch to continue, his head tilting with the suggestions of America's fingers until they look into each other's eyes, mirrored faces with mismatching irises.

America's eyes move once down Matthew's body, and then up, but his fingers do not shake. "We need to talk," he says, and his voice is unusually firm.

Matthew doesn't quite know how to deal with this apparition before him. The last time he had talked to America in any sense the other had been blazing with righteous anger against England, and nothing Matthew did or said could get his brother to shut up about taxes or representation. This, he thought, was entirely unusual.

But then Matthew's eyes followed the fingers that were still pressing gently against his jaw, followed the long scar that started at the wrist of his brother's sword hand and moved up America's arm until it disappeared beyond the bend of his elbow.

Matthew was tired. This war had lasted for three years, and he already felt like an old man hobbling across his lands and watching the fire in his grate die to embers. America – America had been fighting both outside forces and inside forces for nearly forty years.

Matthew's gaze traced the creases under his brother's eyes, and was mildly surprised that his brother still managed the fortitude to travel across the plains of Ontario in the dead of winter to deliver cider.

Matthew was tired and America was crazy – but this, at the end of the day, was nothing new.

"Talk, then," Matthew said, finally breaking his self-imposed vow of silence. He stood and crossed the room for mugs with which to decant the cider.

He feels rather than sees America's wry smile on his back. "It's hard to have a conversation when I'm the only one talking," he observes, not moving from his post beside the bearskin rug, standing like a soldier at attention.

"Never stopped you before," Matthew replies, checking the pewter mugs. He crosses back to the fire and puts them on the hearth to heat, right next to the warming jug of cider.

That draws a laugh, and Matthew feels something inside of him hitch – he hadn't realized how long it had been since he heard his brother laugh. He also hadn't realized how much he missed it.

America sank down to the bearskin rug with his old effortlessness, all gangly teenage legs and hidden strength. With one leg curled underneath him and one folded up so America could rest his hands on the knee and his chin on his hands, he offered Matthew a surprisingly beatific smile, and for a strange moment it was as if these past forty years of separation and war had never occurred.

"All right, well, I'll start," America stated, and Matthew rolled his eyes at America's irrepressible smile. "…tell me, Matthew, what you think about Europe?"

Matthew blinked, and turned back to test the temperature of the cider jug, mostly just to give himself time to think. "It's… the center of the world," he replies. America is known for shooting the moon when it comes to odd questions – Matthew's never met anybody else that can throw him off guard as effortlessly as America seems to do.

America's sigh tells Matthew that his response was a little bit less than what the American was hoping for. "It's a cesspool," the American says frankly, causing Matthew to turn and raise an eyebrow.

"Just because you broke England's heart doesn't make you the master of the universe," Matthew replies mildly, expecting the small flicker of anger that goes across his brother's face at the reprimand.

"This isn't about England," America says, spitting the name like it's a curse, and Matthew can feel the swell of America's emotions almost as if it was his own. "It's about not _being_ him."

Matthew busies himself with pulling the wax seal from the stopper – easy now, since it's been warming by the fire. He hums, curious as to the purpose of this visit, and curious as to what his twin has to say.

"We're alone out here," America continues, as Matthew pries the cork from the jug and decants the cider. "Mattie, are you listening?"

Matthew's arm seizes at the use of the familiar name, sending warm cider to slosh against his hand. Wincing, he flicks the hot liquid away.

He hears America stand and approach, those whisper silent boots over rough floorboards. Fingers again at the curve of his jaw, and Matthew at once wishes that America would stop touching him so, and feels goosebumps explode down his body with it.

America's eyes, unusually serious, gaze down at him. "We can't afford to fight."

Matthew's breath snorts through his nostrils, and he finishes pouring the drinks. "I don't know if you've forgotten the entirety of the last three years," he says dryly, "but I believe that _you_ were the one invading _me_."

Matthew hands one of the warm pewter mugs to America and the other accepts, his lips twisting wryly. "It was the only way to get England's attention," America says at last.

That might have been enough to make Matthew angry, if he had any will to dredge up the energy. Instead, he sips at America's cider – as expected, it's delicious and alcoholic, burning a path of warmth to his stomach.

America's hand reaches out again and it cups along Matthew's jaw once more, leaving the northern country to wonder what America's sudden obsession was with that particular part of his body. America tilts Matthew's head until blue meets straight on with purple. "I didn't blockade St. Lawrence," America reminds him, quietly.

Matthew blinks. That had been one of the great mysteries of the northern front of the war – the main supply route to the city of York was through the St. Lawrence river, which, unfortunately, went straight through American territory. If America had chosen to blockade the river, supplies wouldn't have gotten through that vital artery, and, well –

It would have been bad. But America hadn't, and England had simply chalked it up to a young nation's stupidity. Matthew had been puzzled. Grateful, of course – the river blockade would have ended up starving out a good portion of his population – but puzzled.

"I don't want you to be weak," America continues. He smiles. "Not stronger than me, of course, but… not weak."

Matthew feels himself flood with exasperation. "I should have burned your capital twice," he mutters.

America grins again, lifting his free hand to the collar of his own shirt and puling it down – there, right over his heart, a wound has begun to heal. "We're rebuilding," America says, letting the shirt cover the scar once more. "Better than ever. You should see the new White House, Mattie, it's… it's going to be great." America's expression sobers suddenly, and Matthew wishes that he could shift moods with the ease of his southern neighbor. Matthew knows that America's mood swings are due largely to the inconsistent weather patterns across his territory, but it's still hard to keep up with, regardless.

"I don't want us to be like France and England," America says seriously. "We… we're the New World, Mattie."

Matthew's tongue reaches out to feather across a dry bottom lip, feeling something electrify in the air, but not sure where it's going or what it means. "…what do you want?" Matthew asks.

He watches as America takes a nervous half-breath, and then nearly drops his drink in surprise as warm, cider-wet lips cover his own.

For a few blank seconds the world reels – it's not that Matthew is completely innocent, he's listened to both England and France long enough to know that the two have a fight and fornicate relationship like no other. It's not an uncommon practice for nations to assert dominance in such a manner, especially not after –

Matthew's blood goes cold and he shoves America so far back that both slam into the opposite walls of the log cabin, the entire building shaking, thatch fluttering down from the roof.

"Out," Matthew demands when he can draw a breath. America still looks somewhat dazed – his head had hit the wall when Matthew had nearly thrown him across the room. "How… how…"

While America's admission that he had _invaded_ his very body of land just for the attentions of his former colonial master hadn't brought Matthew to rage, the phantom feeling of lips and the wet residue of America's kiss brought so much fury to his vision that he nearly lost consciousness before he managed to control the anger, the blinding, _blinding_ –

"How _dare_ you," Matthew rumbles, low and dangerous as avalanches in the West. America doesn't move from the wall, and Matthew is too angry to notice if it's from inertia or fear but he also doesn't care as he crosses the room and grabs his brother by the throat.

"I did not surrender to _you_," Matthew reminds America in a low hiss against his ear. His fingers don't shake against his brother's skin, nor do they press inordinately hard, but it's a warning touch, and Matthew can feel his brother's throat muscles work around a swallow. "You storm my land, you try to…" a moment of cold fear washes through him, the feeling of America sinking its armies into his land, the fear of having parts of him owned by England, owned by America, caught in the middle, can't escape, America's lips against his, can't escape –

"Matthew," America says, the low whisper breaking through Matthew's panic.

_Again with the familiarity_, Matthew thinks, his grip tightening a little more against America's neck.

"I don't want your surrender," America goes on, and Matthew can feel every rumble of his vocal cords. It gives him distant images of land not yet explored, of trembling coastlines and the salty slap of a vast ocean against rocks. "This isn't about that."

Matthew swallows hard and bores his glare into America's eyes again, before slowly removing his hand from America's throat. His fingers shake.

"I want to…" America bites his lip and Matthew almost smiles at their mutual ineloquence. America may be able to rouse a man to political passion, but he clearly struggles with the other matters of the heart. The fire crackles, and Matthew can feel as well as hear the howl of a February wind outside. "I want to… connect. I've never…"

Matthew rapidly assembles thoughts out of America's broken syllables. He remembers America's revolution, feels the pain of England and the raw fury of America as if it were yesterday and the whole bloody mess had played out in his own head. "When England surrendered, did you-"

"No," America says. His face looks vaguely discomfited at the thought. "I didn't."

It's food for thought, if nothing else. Matthew stands, feeling the constant heat wave from America brush over him. The fire crackles again, the wood collapsing into the embers and it changes the cast of firelight across America's-

_Alfred_, he thinks, allowing himself to think of the nation in front of him (and below him) as a human entity for the first time in nearly half a century.

Alfred blinks, and leans forward slowly, once more initiating the kiss.

This time, Matthew allows it to happen, pressing forward slightly into the kiss, not accepting it as a defeated colony, but rather reciprocating as a equal nation and the feeling of elation that bursts over his head is like warm rain in spring, like tornados in the West, and it frightens him with the incredible _connection_ it is – he feels everything.

He feels the top of the Arctic ice with it's chilly promise of a passage through, he touches America's shoulder and feels the hot sticky warmth of what the Spaniards had called Florida, there's Alfred's heart beating with the vigor of colonists-turned-Americans, and Matthew feels his own blood, his own people, surge along with it.

Alfred's lips part and it tastes like salt and the sea, and Matthew swallows the groan he surrenders like the rumble of thunder in the mountains. Shaking, curious fingers trail along Matthew's spine and he shivers, and it makes Matthew go hot with cold and then freeze with heat.

It's Alfred who breaks the kiss, and Matthew can see his own dazed expression mirrored in the eyes of the other.

A sudden cold fear, then, and he understands why nations so rarely couple of their own volition – now that he's felt the heat of Alfred's southern coast and Alfred has tasted the ice at the top of Matthew's world, both know there is no turning back. There can be no more war; there can be no more invasions.

Their borders join, the line between them long and indistinct; neither one knows where they end, there's so much unexplored territory between them, so much unknown. And just as their borders touch there is a line formed by their bodies against each other and they open, unguarded.

When their lips meet again Alfred's hand curls tight into Matthew's hair, and Matthew rolls his hips instinctively into Alfred, who gives up another thunder-in-the-mountains moan.

_There is no turning back_, Matthew thinks, before all coherent thought escapes him entirely.

(end part 1)

Historical notes:

Obviously, this takes place after the War of 1812. It's common parlance that America lost the war, but the entire issue is more complicated than that and the actual answer depends on how you look at it. On one hand, America _did_ get beaten out of Canada, but if you read the reasons why America started the war in the first place, actually annexing Canadian/British territory wasn't one of the reasons. (Of course, the Americans thought that the Canadians would be overjoyed to throw off the British, which wasn't the case.)

America actually did invade Canada to get the attentions of the British. Due to the Napoleonic wars, the British Navy was pressing virtually every male they could get their hands on into naval service, and this included those who were born in Britain and then immigrated to America. America was not pleased that Britain wasn't recognizing America's right to naturalize citizens (also, Britain actually conscripted some American-born Americans as well).

When the war ended, zero concessions were made to anybody. America kept all prewar American land, and Britain kept all prior British land. Actually, the aftermath of the War of 1812 ended in more positive relations between America, Canada, and Britain.

It's still a mystery why the Americans didn't blockade the St. Lawrence river. Weird.


	2. Chapter 2

Alfred is the one to break the kiss, and he does it as roughly and as clumsily as he had executed the initiation. Matthew's senses reel for a second at the sudden loss of wet warm lip _slide_ against his own, and his eyes blink open in surprise when Alfred's strong fingers start attacking the lacings at his neck.

"A-are we-" Matthew starts, giving them both one last chance at sanity before Alfred's hands deviate from Matthew's lacings and instead opt to slip under Matthew's homespun shirt and grab his hips.

The question stutters to a halt as Alfred's blue (sky blue, ocean blue, revolutionary blue, i_so/i_ blue) eyes pin him in place like a beetle to a card and his hands slide up Matthew's sides.

Matthew's pretty sure he shouts but the sound is entirely lost as both his coasts feel Alfred's touch like a brutal summer storm and his head floats away, only to be brought back by the purely human sensation of _touch_ – goosebumps rattle his frame and he loses the rhythm of breath for a moment.

When he comes back to partial awareness again, Matthew finds himself slumped forward against Alfred's flat chest, hard with muscle and miles of plains and Matthew finds himself aching, body, coasts, and cock, and his hands reach up and grip at Alfred's biceps.

He can feel the bellows of Alfred's breath shudder uncertainly for a moment, obviously deciding whether to take it to the bed or not, but Matthew's bed is small, spare, and narrow: with a surge of energy Matthew finds himself moving closer to the fire, and one of Alfred's hands sweeps Matthew's knees out from under him, and he's laying supine against the bearskin rug, the firelight and warmth licking along his body like Alfred's tongue does against his throat and Matthew moans.

There is something delicious in submission, and Matthew knows this well – after all, he submitted yearly to the touch and demands of General Winter, who took him over from top to bottom. It was inevitable and Matthew never fought it: in return it made the maple syrup sweeter and frosted the pines with gentle snow like sugar on gingersnaps.

This, however, is entirely different. This is a willing openness, and Alfred's lips move to claim Matthew's again and Matthew can only rock his head along with Alfred's movement. Where before there had been panic at an invading force, now there was the vice of discovery, and Matthew – Canada – wants nothing more than to be explored.

So Matthew rolls open like the great prairies in his interior, rolls open and waits, shudders as coarse fingers trace along his jaw line and skate down his trembling chest and stomach to lift at the hemline of his shirt.

"Oh, Canada," Alfred whispers from somewhere above him, fingers moving lightly, too lightly, up under Matthew's shirt and pushing it back, voice trembling and full of reverence.

Matthew takes it upon himself to call upon a higher power. "i_God/i_," he moans, the syllable coming out louder than he intended it to, his hands curling into fists, eyes squeezed shut. "Get i_to/i_ it."

Alfred doesn't need a second invitation. His mouth follows the path his fingers had taken, licking and nipping his way up the Canadian's chest, leaving a map of pink marks in his wake. Soon, Matthew raises his arms and Alfred obliges him by removing the shirt – Matthew can feel both the press of the firelight and Alfred's smile against his skin and it makes him tremble.

More movement, then, as Alfred situates himself above Matthew, his arms planting on either side of Matthew's head like the gigantic trees that populated Alfred's land more steadily than the settlers did. "Matthew," Alfred says, voice all honey and syrup and sun-on-the-rocks, "look at me."

Matthew's eyes open and his voice shudders in the back of his throat at Alfred's manic focus. "Touch me," Matthew whispers, the human side of him ashamed at the admission but his body i_ached/i_, it ached, and when he shook with the need he clenched his jaw against a moan and almost succeeded at keeping it quiet.

Alfred remains silent and still for a moment before slipping back into hot, liquid, perfect action – his head dips and his lips seal against the jaw line that he'd been touching ever since Alfred entered his house and Matthew gasps, his whole body going rigid against that sudden wet warmth. Matthew feels a corresponding jolt in his mountains and in his balls and suddenly thinks that the combined torture of being both of flesh and of soil is going to kill him before it's all through.

Alfred moves again, his tongue licking a hot path over the shell of Matthew's ear and Matthew lets out a noise like a wind moaning over breakers and he cries out when Alfred's lips pull sweet suction against his earlobe. More tongue and lip and teeth fight down the side of Matthew's neck and by the time America has launched his full frontal attack against Matthew's clavicle Canada is moaning, insensible but to the hot promise of America's touch.

When Alfred's tongue paints a wet circle around Matthew's left nipple Matthew's entire body jolts; a hot sweat breaks out over his entire body at the bolt of sensation that strikes him like summer lightning. Matthew's fingers clench and his elbows jerk but there's something that keeps him in place, keeps him from interfering with the fearless explorer conquering his territory in the most delicious of ways. Instead, he arches in a wordless cry for more.

Alfred obliges, lips sealing to Matthew's nipple and working it to hardness while his right hand slides up and tweaks at Matthew's right nipple. Matthew's head thrashes from left to right as if in denial, but the only noise of bereavement he makes is when Alfred removes his mouth from the nipple he'd been toying with to blow cool air across the sensitized bit of flesh.

Kissing his way to the other side of Matthew's chest, Alfred offers the same treatment to the other nipple, switching fingers for tongue, and tongue for fingers. Matthew is quickly losing all sense of self in the intoxicating, overwhelming blend of human pleasure with something far deeper, something that makes the roots of his trees and the streams in his veins quiver. Hot electricity pulses along with his heartbeat, and his focus slides down to the tightness in his pants like it never has before.

Matthew lets another strangled noise go as Alfred reaches down and palms at the hardness between Matthew's legs – the recoil of sensation is too much to bear and Matthew buries his head in his own shoulder to ride it out.

Alfred makes a soft noise of amusement above him, and then is a flurry of movement and dexterity as he pulls Matthew's pants down; they tangle with his boots and a couple movements of maneuvering has Matthew's boots shucked and thrown to another part of the room, and the pants are gone as well.

Matthew feels his face flush even as his eyes close: Alfred's gaze over his naked body is as heavy as winter's first snow blanket in the north. Daring himself, _idaring/i _himself, Matthew spreads his legs and feels his cock brush against his stomach with the movement; he bites his lip and trembles at that exquisite vulnerability.

"Oh," Alfred says above him, voice somewhere between a word and a gasp of reverence. Matthew feels heat rush through him like a wildfire at the noise, and his entire body shakes when Alfred rests a too-light touch on his hip, fingers kneading into the swell of flesh and then stroking gently across his hip and to his inner thigh, pointedly ignoring Matthew's groin in the process. The sound that Matthew lets escape is more or less a whine, and it embarrasses him.

"Oh God," Alfred groans, and Matthew doesn't know if the other is more or less coherent than before, "Matt - iCanada/i - I, oh, God –"

Matthew can't decide if he wants to moan again or just kick the other for his sudden lack of movement when those strong hands move again to his hips and flip Matthew over onto his side – Matthew moves with the urging easily, his spread hands rising above his head to cross at the wrists, still open, still exposed.

Soft, warm fingers touch the nape of Matthew's neck and then slowly trace down the ridge of Matthew's spine, and Matthew's nipples are tightening against the air of their own volition, and he feels the heavy drag of precome starting to leak from his cockhead, smearing against his stomach and he bites at his lower lip.

Alfred's hand slides lower down and cups the curve of Matthew's behind, fingers kneading into it thoughtfully, and then Matthew idoes/i moan, his body moving of its own volition to get closer to Alfred's hand.

The massage stops, and Matthew's plaintive whine corresponds with Alfred's contemplative noise.

"Stand," Alfred says, and in one smooth movement the Canadian feels him pull away, at once bereft of touch and bewildered that he still retains enough coherency to move so quickly.

Matthew struggles to right himself – his entire body feels connected with the heavy throb of his cock and balls and it seems to weight him to the ground – before Alfred's arms and hands are there again, effortlessly lifting him up and turning him around.

His arms find purchase on the thick wooden mantle overhanging the fireplace, and Alfred arranges Matthew's elbows on it for extra stability – Matthew's head lolls against his forearms like an errant schoolboy sleeping on the desk in class. Then, Alfred slides a thigh between Matthew's legs, urging the Canadian to spread, which Matthew does.

Fighting against gravity to stand is a little less than pleasant, but the mantle takes his weight easily enough. Alfred blankets him from behind and the fire licks at his front – so close, almost too close – and Matthew revels in the warmth.

From here, the American's hands can explore so much more freely; they skate down Matthew's neck and cup the base of his jaw before sliding to tweak his nipples. Alfred rolls the sensitive flesh between thumb and forefinger until Matthew is shaking, vibrating with the pleasure and his cock weeps freely, sending splatters of white liquid to drip onto the embers of the fire and hiss.

When Matthew thinks he can take no more the hands move, one large hand splaying over Matthew's stomach and pulling him back to press more firmly into Alfred's body and Matthew can finally appreciate how _strong_ the other is, feel the thump of Alfred's heart and the twist and pull of muscle behind him and Matthew's exhale is long, low, and deep.

The massage goes further down, large fingers squeezing the thick muscles in Matthew's thighs – Alfred shifts down to his knees behind him and those hands slide down to the Canadian's calves for a moment, and the massage there isn't sexual but feels so good that Matthew raises to his toes and a keening noise escapes his throat.

It's getting to the point where Matthew wonders if Alfred is going to make him beg – his cock is throbbing at the warmth from the fire and the torture of being untouched for so long and he opens his mouth to make an attempt to speak English but then –

Alfred's hands move suddenly from the backs of Matthew's heels to cup at the curves of his ass and anything Matthew was going to say gets tangled up in his gasp. The American's bold, shameless fingers knead deep, and his thumbs press into Matthew's cleft and spread him apart.

The noise that rips from Matthew's throat at being exposed like this is animalistic in its tone, but pales in comparison to the broken cry he makes when Alfred replaces the coolness of cabin air with the hot, slick, wet warmth of his tongue.

Matthew howls.

Alfred is relentless, just like he is in battle, just like the goddamn nation is with everything i_else/i_ and his tongue dips, twists, hardens into a point and tongues at the pucker of flesh and then suddenly loosens and laves the whole area with long, broad wet sweeps.

Matthew's grip on the mantle is so tight he hears wood crack and he sobs, he sobs brokenly but he's not broken, he's flying, his eyes are squeezed shut and his vision pulses red with every beat of his heart and every syllable from his mouth is incoherent and he's close, he's close –

One of Alfred's hands moves and slides up between Matthew's legs, and suddenly two fingers press hard at the tender flesh just behind his balls and Matthew feels something within him snap and his orgasm hits like fire.

He's flailing, he's ifalling/i, and Alfred's hands are there to catch him as his knees collapse and Matthew falls back on Alfred's clothed chest, feeling those broad hands caressing his shaking limbs and those wide lips whispering platitudes into his ears – Matthew realizes that he's crying, and can't remember when he started.

When the waves of pleasure subside to a gentle, containable glow, Mathew raises his head – somehow in all of that Alfred ended up on his back, sprawled over the bearskin rug, and Matthew is laying face down over him. Matthew blinks as Alfred reaches up to brush Matthew's hair back.

"…good?" Matthew's mirror image asks, a nearly unbearable smirk and the obvious iI-know-the-answer/i written all over his smug expression.

Matthew wants to hit him, but finds sweeter revenge in the hardness lurking beneath Matthew's thigh; Matthew presses down slightly and Alfred's head jerks back with a hiss.

Coherency returns to Matthew in a flood – he's awake now, the dimming orgasm leaving clarity in its abatement and he recognizes Alfred's fluttering lashes as somebody who's about to give up control.

Matthew wonders if this is what human sex is like, or if the constant give-take-sway of emotion and energy is simply the bane of nations.

As Alfred's breathing deepens and slows, Matthew brushes his sweat-slick hair away from his face and then drags a hand down Alfred's body, feeling the definition of chest and stomach below the pads of his fingers. Up his hand pushes again, to rest against the American's neck and touch the stubble there.

"Stand up," Matthew tells the other, his voice deep and hoarse from his orgasm moments earlier.

Alfred nearly bowls Matthew over in his readiness to comply, standing in front of the kneeling Canadian, a red flush starting to creep up his neck.

Matthew wants to see more of it – the flush disappears under Alfred's shirt and the sight annoys him. Swallowing, Matthew wills moisture to an otherwise paper dry mouth before issuing his second command. "Strip."

There's a little jerk of hesitation on Alfred's part before his hands go to the lacings at the neck of his shirt.

Matthew doesn't move, barely breathes when Alfred throws his shirt to the ground, divesting himself of his boots and trousers. Alfred stands like a soldier at attention, the rigidity in his stance mirroring that of his cock. Despite this, the flickering firelight illuminates his skin and he looks natural somehow, like a wild animal in the night.

If Matthew's mouth hadn't been dry before, it certainly was, now – Alfred was lean and sharp-angled, sinew belying the strength under his skin, and Matthew could see those muscles occasionally flexing as the American kept himself from moving. Those blue eyes were on him again, something calm and yet manic in them at the same time, and the look brought Matthew to his feet.

It only takes one step to close the space between them, and Matthew takes Alfred's head between his hands in a firm grip, causing the lids over the American's blue eyes to flutter like falling leaves in the autumn.

The kiss is slow and wet, Matthew slowly pulling Alfred's head toward his own and tilting it for the perfect angle, an agonizing drag of lips and tongue.

"I love you," Alfred blurts the moment Matthew pulls away from the kiss, the words tumbling like water from the mammoth falls that marked their border. Matthew blinks and releases Alfred's face at the sudden, unexpected confession.

Matthew can tell that the other panics a bit at his silence – Alfred's hands snatch out for Matthew's shoulders but Matthew intercepts, grabbing Alfred's wrists and placing Alfred's hands on his head.

Alfred whimpers, but doesn't move his hands – somewhere along the line an unspoken treaty was drawn up, Matthew thinks wryly, one where both surrendered, but at the moment Matthew can't quite tell who's surrendering to iwhat/i.

Instead of dwelling on it, Matthew's fingers inch their way over Alfred's pectorals, one touching the delicate new scar tissue over Alfred's heart, where Matthew burned Alfred's capital. Matthew leans forward to give the new skin attention from his fingers and lips, and when Alfred groans Matthew can feel the vibration through his kiss.

Eventually, Matthew pulls away with a wet sucking sound. "I love you too," he tells the other, thumb stroking over that soft new skin, made slick with saliva.

Alfred parts his lips to exhale and Matthew takes advantage of the opening to slide three fingers in; Alfred's lips and eyes close simultaneously and strong suction begins around the Canadian's digits. Matthew rubs his fingers gently against Alfred's tongue and is rewarded by another moan.

When Matthew pulls his fingers out from Alfred's mouth he does so slowly, dragging the pads and tips of his fingers across the American's tongue-teeth-lips before stepping behind him. From the front Matthew hadn't been able to see how Alfred's flanks had been quivering but from the back it was obvious; the vibrations caused a delicious ripple across Alfred's ass and thighs, and something about it made Matthew's mouth water.

Matthew steps forward and presses his body against Alfred's, feeling the sharp inhale of breath and the tremor in his body as if it were Matthew's own. Matthew won't be coy like Alfred was – his fingertips made slippery from Alfred's saliva trail along Alfred's thigh and then wrap firmly around the base of the American's cock in a solid grip.

The high-pitched noise and shock of movement that rocks Alfred's body is like sweet spring water to Matthew: he drinks it in and holds Alfred's cock in his hand.

_iThere is power here/i_, a detached part of Matthew thinks. He understands, a little, why nations engage in this kind of coupling after winning or losing wars: the desire to claim is strong, and Matthew awes at the sensation of holding America captive, if only for a moment.

But this is different than true conquest; he has America only because Alfred itrusts/i Matthew with his body, and the awe shifts into reverence and the reverence inspires his hand to move in one long, slow stroke that ends with Matthew's fingers playing on the head of Alfred's cock.

The noise Alfred makes is more guttural than anything Matthew has ever heard in his life. Almost of its own volition, Matthew's free hand snakes down to cup at Alfred's balls, and Alfred's next sound is somewhere between pleasure and pain, and his muscles are vibrating like he's a strung bow about to snap.

"I want," Alfred sobs, and Matthew realizes with a shock that the other is crying, "I iwant/i-"

And Matthew knows what he wants, like he knows the wheat in the ground will rise come spring. Where Matthew wanted America to take him, to carry him, to play him like a fiddle, Alfred wants Canada to rub him into the soil, to push him down like he would never allow another nation to do by force.

But when it's by choice, Matthew surmises, it's another game entirely.

"Bend over," he orders, and the words nearly stick in his throat. Alfred complies, hands planted down on the ground, body bending into a perfect arc of nation and humanity, breathing hard and sweating and iwanting/i.

Matthew admires the view for a moment before asking, "How many?"

"More," Alfred pleads, the confession as rushed and blunt as his declaration of love had been earlier. "iMore/i."

Matthew exhales through his nose before focusing down on America's ass, the two globes of flesh trembling below him, and draws back a hand.

He doesn't hold back, and the resounding islap/i of flesh striking flesh is so loud that Matthew jumps, but the sound of his movement is easily overtaken by Alfred's exclamation. The skin turns pink immediately after impact and Matthew shakes his hand a little bit – that had hurt more than expected.

More blows after that, their sound loud and obscene in the half-dark of the cabin. Matthew alternates cheeks, a strange rhythm of sounds played out depending on if he strikes Alfred across the thighs, under his sit spots, or straight on. Alfred is moaning continuously now, one long unbroken sound, and Matthew watches as white liquid drips from between Alfred's legs to the floor.

Eventually, breathing hard, Matthew stops, pulls away, and watches Alfred's body quake dangerously in his held position, the moaning continuing, the abused skin cherry red.

"Matthew," Alfred is sobbing now, clearly on the edge of orgasm and entirely gone to delirium. "i_Matthew/i_."

Matthew takes pity on him, sidling up behind Alfred's body and hooking an arm around his waist. He pulls the other nation back against him, and Alfred is clearly too boneless to stand on his own so he leans back into Matthew's body, cock as red as his ass, tears streaming down his face, repeating Matthew's name like a mantra.

Matthew feels his breath accelerate even further, and he wants one thing, he wants one – more – thing –

"Canada," Matthew whispers, hand resting against Alfred's leg. "iCanada/i."

Alfred, with all the loudness that his lungs can produce, screams the name, and Matthew barely has to touch him before Alfred comes so hard that his knees buckle and his semen nearly hits the thatched roof.

Matthew catches Alfred before he falls – just like Alfred did for him – and they both lower in an exhausted, naked, boneless heap to the bearskin rug.

Matthew settles Alfred on his side and lies next to him – the other has his eyes closed, breathing shallowly, an occasional tear still streaking his cheek.

The sight is somewhere between extremely satisfying and extremely worrying. Matthew reaches out a gentle hand and touches it to Alfred's temple, causing the other to exhale deeply, and open his eyes.

And Alfred smiles.

Matthew smiles a little bit in return, his fingers tracing Alfred's lips and coming to a rest under Alfred's chin, touching the stubble.

Their kiss is less of a kiss and more of a weak touching of the lips, each of them offering the soft movements until they run out of energy and collapse to the rug.

Alfred sighs deeply and rolls over onto his side so that his back is facing the Canadian and Matthew frowns for a moment, before Alfred shuffles a little farther back and rotates his shoulders entreatingly into Matthew's chest.

Matthew drapes an arm over the other and entwines their legs together – and this is it, this is right, this is where they both belong.

Matthew floats for a moment before his hand slides down Alfred's flank to rest lightly on the abused skin of the American's ass. "You're all right?" Matthew whispers.

Alfred makes a noise like a laugh before pushing back slightly into Matthew's hand. "You burn down my capital and don't say a word – you hit me with your hand and you're all concerned?" he asks, teasingly.

Matthew scowls and pinches the red skin just slightly, causing Alfred to jump a little. "This is different," the Canadian insists, caressing the area he pinched.

He feels Alfred sigh and shuffle farther back into the embrace – Matthew thinks that if they push together any more, their skin is going to meld. "I know," Alfred replies, voice foggy with exhaustion. Alfred yawns, and Matthew can feel the beat of the other's heart. "I love you," the American mumbles again, his fingers entwining with Matthew's.

Matthew sighs, less out of exasperation than anything else. "You are ridiculous," he informs the other. He breaks their connection by sitting up, and Alfred makes a discontented noise when he does, but Matthew merely reaches for the folded horse blanket sitting beside the fire before laying back down again.

As Matthew arranges the blanket around them both, Alfred rolls onto his back - and Matthew winces for him, becaue it has to hurt – and catches Matthew's mouth in one last kiss.

When Alfred pulls away, the look in his eyes is so entreating that Matthew sighs. "I love you too, all right?"

Alfred smiles like a satisfied child, and they reshuffle into their arrangement of naked limbs – Alfred's back pressed to Matthew's chest, Matthew's bent legs cradling Alfred's lower half.

"Now stop invading me," Matthew mumbles into the back of Alfred's neck.

Alfred sighs, well on the way to unconsciousness. "I will."

As exhaustion takes over and their bodies generate heat in the rhythm of sleep, Matthew is struck with an odd certainty that Alfred is telling the truth.

End


End file.
